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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275133">But Love Travels Like A Rumor Here</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensandvinyl/pseuds/pensandvinyl'>pensandvinyl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins), Wonder Woman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:34:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25275133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensandvinyl/pseuds/pensandvinyl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's missing something and he frowns the same way he does whenever he tries to remember the details of his last mission. But racking his brain won't make the question he needs to ask any easier to find and so instead he settles for: “How did you know where I live?” </p><p>“I was already on my way to see you, actually. You're part of my route.” The excitement and pride that mark her words make him want to smile. “I am Diana Prince. Packhorse Librarian.”</p><p>Written for Wondertrev Love Week 2020, Day 3. Prompt: Trevor Ranch.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>But Love Travels Like A Rumor Here</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This is intended to fill the Trevor Ranch prompt for the Wondertrev Love Week that’s being hosted by Wondertrevnet over on tumblr. The premise was inspired by The Giver of Stars by Jojo Moyes (which I recommend!) and, of course, the real Packhorse Librarians. The title is a lyric from the Sleeping At Last song A Skeleton of Something.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Look. </em>Across the sprawling plains of Oklahoma, where the yellow grass reaches past your knees and what most would call the middle of nowhere, there’s a farm. Several, probably, all with a half-a-day’s ride between them and the nearest town, but this particular one is marked by a crooked sign that reads Trevor Ranch and a barn that’s in need of a good coat of paint at the very least. The man that lives there - Captain Steve Trevor, celebrated survivor of the Great War - has thoughts of fixing them, but he’s got animals to look after and crops to prepare for the harvest. It’s not a job meant for just two hands, but two hands are all he’s got. Two hands, one bad leg, and eyes that can’t see past the hand stretched out in front of him. </p><p>But who’s counting. </p><p>“It’s a shame, really,” the townsfolk would whisper whenever he braved the ride to town, “He used to be such a handsome fella.”</p><p>There’s a price for surviving. Most seem to think that the scars that mark his face and body are his, but they don’t have to live with the nightmares or the guilt. They don’t have to listen to the rumors (everything from heroics to treason, and all too glamorous for the likes of him) about a mission he can only half-remember, or endure pity for things he doesn’t much care about like his lack of marriage prospects and apparent loss of vigor. It’s why he doesn’t make the trip past his crooked sign any more than he absolutely has to. </p><p>A doctor (or anyone with less pride, really) might say he shouldn’t try to make it on his own at all, but Mr. Edwards isn’t due for another week and they’ve never had to worry about bugs destroying their crops and a sick pig. Anyway, it’s his horse that has to do most of the work and they’ve taken this route enough times together now that he’s pretty sure they could both do it blind. </p><p>Besides, they say that the other senses improve when one starts to go and Steve would agree that’s pretty much true. He’s got ears like a cat, now, or so it feels. He hears every howl of the wind, every chirp of a bird’s morning song. He knows when to expect the rush of water racing downstream and the clang of metal against rock. He hears every rustle of the leaves once he reaches the woods, well enough to know the size of the animal making the disturbance and when he might want to pull out his shotgun. He’s thinking about it now - hand reaching for his saddlebag, eyes squinting through the trees just so he can make out a vague outline - that he misses the way his horse ducks his head to avoid a low hanging branch. </p><p>And just like that the world goes black. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Steve wakes, his head feels like someone tried to split it in half and there’s something tickling his cheek. <em> Hair, </em> he realizes when he notes the rag mopping the sweat (or perhaps it’s blood) off his forehead, and long enough to belong to a woman. It hurts too much to even try and make out her features as she hovers above him, but her touch is soft and she smells like honey and home. </p><p>“Angel,” he murmurs, despite himself, and the gentle hand turns firm. </p><p>“Stay still, Captain Trevor, you took quite the spill.” </p><p>He doesn’t recognize the voice, let alone the accent, and so he tries to squint past the pain. Unfortunately that doesn’t make things any less dark. Wouldn’t it be just his luck if the fall went and took the rest of his eyesight with it?</p><p>“Where are we?”</p><p>“Home,” she says, taking all the extra warmth with her as she pulls back, settling somewhere near the bed. “I had to take the liberty of letting myself in, but the circumstances seemed to warrant it.”</p><p>Steve's missing something and he frowns the same way he does whenever he tries to remember the details of his last mission. But racking his brain won't make the question he needs to ask any easier to find and so instead he settles for: “How did you know where I live?”  </p><p>“I was already on my way to see you, actually. You’re part of my route.” The excitement and pride that mark her words make him want to smile. “I am Diana Prince. Packhorse Librarian.”</p><p>He supposes that should mean something, but, “I haven’t checked out a book in years,” is all he can think to say, mumbled into the darkness while he tries to ignore the fact that they hadn’t been introduced prior. He’s not surprised. Everyone knows Captain Steve Trevor and his stomach-turning war wounds. </p><p>“That is the beauty of it,” she explains, “Founded by Eleanor Roosevelt, it is the mission of the Packhorse Librarians to spread literacy throughout the country and bring books to the masses. I have been charged with the greater Tahlequah area.”</p><p>“On your own?”</p><p>She seems to lose a bit of her zeal. “I am hoping to recruit some more girls soon. When the townsfolk finally realize that their fears are unfounded."</p><p>Knowing full well what that so-called fear probably sounded like, Steve doubts this. </p><p>“Well, you can cross me off your list, save yourself a trip.” </p><p>“May I ask why?”</p><p>He’s surprised no one told her. “Even if that last tumble hasn’t knocked me blind, I still can’t see well enough to make out the cover, let alone what words might be on the inside.”</p><p>She’s silent after that, but only for a moment. “The catalog has a selection of Braille titles. It is only a matter --”</p><p>“Never learned it,” Steve chokes out a self-deprecating laugh that turns into a cough, “Seriously, save yourself the trouble, Ms. Prince.”</p><p>“I would hardly call you trouble.” She has moved closer, pressing a glass to his lips, but her words sound farther away somehow. He takes a few greedy gulps before drying his lips as politely as he possibly can when he has nothing but the back of his hand available. “Try and sleep now, Captain Trevor, you had quite the day.”</p><p>He tries pushing himself up on his elbows, but she stops him with a hand to the chest. And he must be worse off than he thought because he goes down with barely a push. “I should see you out,” he insists, refusing to neglect his manners. </p><p>“I never said I was leaving, Captain Trevor,” she follows this with a shushing noise when he tries to protest, “If you are planning to send me away forever, I would at least like to see how you are faring come morning.”</p><p>“It’s night then?” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>Perhaps there’s still hope for his sight, after all. But just like that he doesn’t bother protesting again. What kind of man would he be if he sent a woman away only to have her get lost in the dark? Still, though, he might have liked to direct her to his sister’s old room before sleep took him once more.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Steve wakes to her voice this time, smooth like velvet and delicious as chocolate, and it soon becomes clear that Ms. Prince is more than determined to carry out her mission. </p><p>“That’s Burroughs,” he murmurs once she finishes. He recognizes the characters but not the plot. It must be a sequel, he hadn’t read those as much. “Is that his third Tarzan?”</p><p>“Tenth, actually,” she says, “How are you feeling, Captain Trevor?”</p><p>“Better.” That’s mostly true. His head no longer feels like someone took an axe to it, but it’s a bit disappointing to learn Mr. Burroughs had been so busy since Steve last encountered his work. “Tenth? Seriously?”</p><p>Ms. Prince hums an affirmative note. “I think you’ll find that there’s well over a dozen of his books you’ve missed.” </p><p>Steve lets out an impressed whistle and cannot help but ask, “Do you have another?”</p><p>“Mr. Burroughs is quite popular, I’m afraid, and I’m not sure you’d enjoy the other selection I have with me.” </p><p>Having gotten a reminder of what he’d been missing Steve would have been happy with anything from a service manual to the cheesiest of romances. “I dunno. Maybe. What’s it about?” </p><p>“The pleasures of the flesh.” Steve swears he <em> hears </em>her smirk and so he tries to save face. </p><p>“I might … like that.”</p><p>“Even if I have to read it to you.” </p><p>His cheeks flush a steamy red that he hopes she cannot see. “You hand that out?”</p><p>“Not … <em> officially </em>?” Steve raises a brow. “It is not something commonly talked about among women. Or even between married couples. But that just makes the information all the more necessary, don’t you think?” </p><p>He nods. “I guess I never really thought about it.”</p><p>“Men typically don’t,” A beat passes and she adds, “and so it would be a shame if any of my critics were to find out about it.” </p><p>“I can keep a secret.” </p><p>“I know you can,” she says before clapping her hands together, “Now. Would you like some breakfast?”</p><p>“I could eat.”</p><p>She tells him there’s no need to get up, but Steve insists that he’d like the chance to stretch his legs. That’s mostly true, but privately he frets at the idea of someone mucking about in his kitchen. He has everything placed just so, see, no squinting at the labels necessary and he’ll have to deal with whatever mess she makes of his system when she’s finally gone. </p><p>“May I ask, Captain Trevor,” she starts, the sound of sizzling bacon filling the kitchen, “Why you were heading to town yesterday?”</p><p>“Oh. Bugs are destroying the crops again and one of the pigs is sick,” he murmurs, running the water for the kettle despite her protests. “Needed some things to take care of it. Coffee or tea?” </p><p>“Tea, please.” Steve tries not to be too disappointed by the choice. Despite her best efforts, Etta never did manage to make a proper tea convert out of him. “I would be happy to --” </p><p>He doesn’t need her to finish the offer. “No.” That’s a little too harsh for all Ms. Prince has done and he deflates a bit. “Thank you.”</p><p>She tsks rather noticeably, but doesn’t seem inclined to press the issue. Not while they’re cooking anyway. She cuts the fruit and he winds up frying the eggs and they’re settling down to a fine breakfast less than twenty minutes later. Except Steve doesn’t even get to enjoy his bacon.</p><p>“I suppose then there’s no point in bringing up the fact that I have been reading to Mr. Hopper during my rounds, and he seems to quite enjoy it. And I know poor Mrs. Hopper appreciates the --”</p><p>Steve is frowning. “But Mr. Hopper is a fine reader.”</p><p>“I am afraid he’s rather ill, though,” she says, and he can tell by her tone that the chances of a turnaround aren’t looking too good, “and has been for quite some time.”</p><p>“That’s too bad,” he murmurs and around a mouthful of eggs, he thinks about how he should look in on him during that trip he still has to make. </p><p>“Yes.” Ms. Prince allows them to eat quietly in respect to the heaviness of the subject, but determinedly picks it back up when they deposit the dishes in the sink. “My point, Captain Trevor, was that I would be happy to do the same for you.” </p><p>He shakes his head. “I can’t ask you to do that, Ms. Prince.”</p><p>“I am a librarian, Captain Trevor, that’s what I do.”</p><p>Her outburst is sudden and he narrows his eyes, but for the life of him, Steve can’t get a read on whether or not her unnecessary exasperation is genuine frustration or just a ploy to get him to bend to her will. He reckons a bit of both and so instead he just points out, “You deliver the books.” </p><p>Even her breathing sounds frustrated now. “I saw the longing in your eyes when you learned just how many installments you missed. It could be our little secret --”</p><p>He scoffs. “I’m not embarrassed.” And he wasn’t. His eyes (and leg and good looks) were a small price to pay for however many lives that explosion saved. </p><p>“Is it that I’m a woman then?”</p><p>“No,” he says, voice firm. “<em>No.” </em>The sudden urge to slam his hand into the table bubbles up, a reaction he doesn’t much like, and he settles for sitting down instead, the fight escaping him like air out of a deflated balloon. “It’s the reminder that there’s one more thing I can’t do for myself.”</p><p>“I see.” He doesn’t understand her disappointment, but it’s somehow worse than the pity he’d been expecting. She follows him into a chair and for once he’s glad her features are nothing more than the blur they are. He waits for the turn, but while he feels the warmth of her hands hover briefly near his, Ms. Prince doesn’t actually make a move toward obvious sympathy. “You said you need supplies, Captain Trevor, would  you do me the favor of accompanying me back to town?” </p><p>It’s not quite making the trip himself, he realizes, but at this point he’s happy to meet somewhere, <em> anywhere, </em> in the middle. “Happy to.” He tries for a smile. With his scars, Steve imagines it looks more like a grimace. </p><p>“Wonderful,” Ms. Prince says and Steve wishes he had a clear view of the grin she’s so obviously wrapped around the word.  </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That one trip becomes two and before Steve knows it, they become something of a weekly thing. His sort of neighbor, Mr. Edwards, used to pick him up in his fancy car whenever he went into town, but Steve finds that riding himself is far more preferable. It is still a matter of doing it on someone else’s schedule and he has to worry about whether or not Ms. Prince is going out of her way just to accommodate him, but riding is the closest he can ever hope to get to flying these days and so he takes what he can get. </p><p>“I assure you that it’s no trouble at all, Captain Trevor,” Ms. Prince says every time he presses the issue. “I would be coming out this way to deliver recipes to Mrs. Edwards anyway and to be honest, I happen to like the company. I am happy for the work, but these rides can be quite lonely as you might imagine.”</p><p>Eventually, Steve is able to confirm with Mr. and Mrs. Edwards that this is all indeed true and he even gets a verbal copy of one of those fancy magazine recipes. It turns out to be the best apple pie he’s ever had and he bakes one for Ms. Prince as a thank you. </p><p>And then, when she expresses her pleasure for the gift with giddy, childish delight ("You should be very proud," she tells him between moan-filled bites.), he can't help but make pie a part of the routine. She’s always very complimentary of his cooking (because he certainly couldn’t have her ride all the way out to his farm and <em> not </em>cook her lunch) and Steve tries not to think too much about how warm this makes him. It’s simply a matter of never having anyone to share his cooking with before (his one proper skill these days). Nothing more. </p><p>There is still the matter of the ride home and of course they argue about it, Steve nearly calling off any future trips when Ms. Prince tries to insist on riding back with him. She might enjoy the company, but he can’t stand the thought of wasting anymore of her time. And it’s not the matter of pride she seems to think. He’s been a witness to her work about town -- the men might still distrust her, thinking she’s doing the devil’s work and every other ridiculous assumption they have, but the women have come to anticipate her arrival with nervous excitement. Something that is matched only by the children, who obviously adore her, and can’t seem to get enough of the goods she brings them, new worlds wrapped in leather. It’s clear to him that her services are wanted as much as they are needed. It would be a crime to do anything that might keep her from that. </p><p>They eventually come to a compromise. When Steve finishes gathering whatever supplies he needs that particular day and she has completed her route, they ride halfway together until the road splits and she heads for home, firmly protesting his attempts to accompany her. </p><p>“If I cannot follow you,” she says firmly, “then it seems only fair that you cannot follow me.”</p><p>It’s things like that, that attitude of hers so very different from most of the stiff upper lips in town, that allow his mind to relax and when he does it turns out that Ms. Prince is actually quite good company. They do a fine job of getting to know each other during their trips to town. He learns, for example, that she likes ice cream (<em> all </em>flavors and he makes a mental note to serve their next pie with a scoop of vanilla) and that she’s been riding horses as long as she can remember so the terrain she encounters on her routes are truly no match for her. In turn, Steve admits that it’s flying he misses the most these days, but that he developed quite the fondness for cooking over the years.</p><p>“Where are you from?” he asks one drizzly spring day, body swaying atop his horse.  She’s far too refined for the likes of Tahlequah.</p><p>“Themyscira.” </p><p>He frowns. “Themy-what?”</p><p>“Themyscira.” Even if her amusement is at his expense, Steve likes the way he can pick out her emotions without seeing her face. “It’s an island near Greece.”</p><p>It’s his turn to sound amused. “And you’ve settled in Oklahoma?”</p><p>Something about her sobers, but her words remain fond, “Someone I care about very much hails from here”</p><p>Steve wishes the news didn’t make his stomach drop in quite the way it does. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I have something for you.” It’s some weeks after they started to ride to town together and Ms. Prince sounds obviously pleased when he meets her in front of the old, abandoned shed she’s been using as a makeshift library, wrapped packages snug in his arms. This sunny disposition of hers, Steve finds, is not the least bit uncommon.  Ms. Prince is color in a dark world, always shining. </p><p>“What?” Steve cannot help his curiosity. </p><p>Instead of responding, however, she takes his hand and leads him to a table, guides his fingers to a book, over a series of bumps. Steve sighs. He should have known meeting her in the middle would not deter her from completing the mission she’d set. “I still can’t read it, Ms. Prince.”</p><p>“It’s the alphabet,” she says, “And I could teach you.”</p><p>“You can read Braille?”</p><p>“Several languages, actually.” </p><p>He raises a brow - it is an interesting fact, one he might have liked to test, but not when she was so clearly evading his question. It might have been a while since his skills were tested, but he liked to think he’d been a good spy, once upon a time. “When did this come in?”</p><p>“The fifteenth,” she answers promptly, which would have been just a couple of days ago, smack dab in the middle of her two visits. He doesn’t believe for a second that’s the case, though, and he offers a skeptical look. It would have been far more impressive if he could be sure that he’s actually looking her in the eye. And yet it works, because sheepishly she adds, “Last month.”</p><p>Translation: She didn’t just <em> happen </em> to already know Braille. </p><p>“Ms. Prince --”</p><p>“You would not have it so I wasted my time, would you, Captain Trevor?” In his mind, he can almost see a sculpted eyebrow being raised. “That is your favorite thing to harp on, is it not? As if I’m incapable of deciding who and what is and is not worth my time.” </p><p>“That’s not --”</p><p>“You would be correct, of course, if you say no,” she continues on, as if he hadn’t tried to speak at all, “There’s no one else in town that would have any use for it and the skill will go to waste --” </p><p>“<em> Fine. </em>” </p><p>“Fine?” </p><p>“Fine,” he echoes, the word turning from frustrated annoyance to straight-up resigned. Ms. Prince would make an excellent spy, herself -- she had quite craftily found a way to corner him. Worse, she seemed to know it. </p><p>“No need to sound so disappointed, Captain Trevor,” she says, voice cheerful once more. “I think you will rather enjoy it.” </p><p>“Doubtful.” </p><p>Ms. Prince, however, seems undeterred. “Did you know: it was inspired by old military codes that soldiers used when they wanted to communicate silently.” </p><p>Steve hates that he does, in fact, find that interesting.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Diana refuses to let him replace their trips to town with Braille lessons and instead starts making the trip out to his farm twice a week instead of one. </p><p>“I don’t work Sundays,” she tells him, “So it is actually a relief to have something productive to do with my time.” </p><p>For once, Steve does not think she’s just trying to placate him. Sundays are a day strictly for church and family in these parts and as much as the women and children have come to adore her, Ms. Prince is still on her own in that regard as much as he is.  Steve wonders why she doesn’t take time with her special someone, but she doesn’t talk about them (or anything personal, <em> really </em> ) that much ( <em> at all </em>) and he does his best to respect that line she’s drawn. </p><p>She won’t let him pay her for her time, either, and like everyone else these days, he doesn’t really have the money to spare, but by her own admission she’s not much of a cook and so dinner and a pie for her to take home seems like a reasonable enough compromise. </p><p>It’s a lie he tells himself just as the Spring is deceptive. </p><p>“Birds have gone quiet,” Steve says when he hears Ms. Prince and her horse gallop up the path. He’s been preparing best he could all morning, but there’s little that can actually be done if the farm happens to fall in a tornodo’s path. “Best head home and hunker down before the storm hits.” </p><p>“The sky is clear.” She says it as if she thinks he’s being silly. </p><p>He shakes his head, offering his hand when it’s clear that she’s already started to dismount. “You really haven’t been in Oklahoma very long have you? The clouds roll in quick here and then there’s not much you can do except run for cover.” </p><p>“Well, I’m pretty quick most days.” Sometimes he hates how fast she can be to dismiss things, usually because he knows he’s about to lose the fight. So when she offers, “What can I do to help?” he sighs and points at the tarp he’ll use to try and shelter the crops.</p><p>“Tie that end down, please?”</p><p>After, there’s the matter of herding the animals, getting them under cover, but they can feel the storm as much as the birds can, making them restless, <em> agitated. </em>Ms. Prince seems to have the magic touch, though, getting the cows to move when he can’t and they finish just as Diana comments: “It’s getting dark.”</p><p>Things progress quickly after that. Steve tries to usher her inside, barely able to hear his own voice over the howling wind. “The clouds … what kind of storm is this?” </p><p>“Tornado,” is the only explanation he can offer for now, “Ms. Prince. We have to --”</p><p>“It’s heading for town.”</p><p>He is both relieved and devastated. “Ms. Prince, please. There’s nothing we can do.” </p><p>She doesn’t respond. “Ms. Prince,” he hears the pounding of hoofs and he squints because that can’t possibly be her, <em> right? </em>  “Ms. Prince …” It’s just a skittish horse making a break for it and who can blame them. But there’s no answer and Steve feels the truth in his gut. “ <em> Diana!” </em></p><p>He can’t even be sure if she heard him. Worse, there’s nothing he can do to stop her. He can only wait.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>But he can only wait for so long. </p><p>Mr. Edwards meets him on the road, that old car of his making a racket as he pulls up alongside him. “Looks like we had the same idea. Care for a ride?” </p><p>Steve has to leave the horse behind, praying that he will head for home on his own and then hops into the car where they rattle their way to town.  The colorful string Mr. Edwards let’s out is his first indication of just how bad things are. </p><p>Crops, entire businesses, <em> homes … </em> all destroyed. Heirlooms are lost, entire life savings just <em> gone. </em>But when they step out of the car, Steve does not hear crying or words of anger. Because the people?</p><p>“All fine,” says Mrs. Johnson, the local school teacher. “A few injuries, but everyone’s alive and accounted for. And do you know why?”</p><p>Steve can only shake his head. </p><p>“<em> Her,” </em> Mrs. Johnson continues, “Ms. Prince saved everyone.  She heard cries for help no one else could hear and rushed toward them with amazing speed. She lifted doors and walls like they were paper and stopped a falling tree with just her back. I always said she was the Guardian Angel this town needed. Perhaps now --”</p><p>But Steve has stopped listening, “Where is she?” </p><p>“She’s gone to try and get Mr. Matthew’s herd back. Poor things scattered --” </p><p>It’s not as easy as he would like to follow after her and it’s Mr. Edwards that convinces him to wait because from the sound of it, she’s just fine and more than capable of taking care of herself. Steve would have to agree, but that doesn’t stop him from needing to see as much for himself. But he waits once more, helping Mrs. Johnson salvage what they can of her school.</p><p>It gives him some time to think, piece together something he probably should have questioned a long time ago.</p><p>She’s met with applause and cheers when she returns and Steve wishes he hadn't agreed to keep the school’s heavy oak door steady while Mr. Hanley replaces the hinges. Instead, he only has Mrs. Johnson’s awe-filled whispers to reassure him. “Not even a scratch.”</p><p>“Steve.” She sounds relieved when they finally do find each other a short time later and he barely registers the first proper use of his name on her lips. </p><p>He surprises himself with the speed with which he moves towards her and then the force of his hug when he finally wraps his arms around her.  Doubt does not have room to grow, either, Diana sinking into the embrace, hugging him back just as tightly while he buries his nose in the crook of her neck, breathing her in deeply.</p><p>“Steve Trevor,” she murmurs near his ear, a sort of adoration wrapped around his name that makes him wonder. </p><p>It lasts just a moment and then he remembers.</p><p>“I never did ask,” he starts, taking a careful step back, “How you got me home? The day we met?” </p><p>She follows him, gentle fingers stroking his cheek. “On your horse.”</p><p>“But I fell off my horse.” It is only his confusion that keeps him from leaning into her touch. “How ever did you get me back on?” </p><p>“How did <em> you </em> survive a plane explosion?” The words are pointed, like when he was a boy and his mother tried to remind him to do his chores without actually saying the words. </p><p>“I suppose it’s true,” he shrugs, “the human body is capable of amazing feats when pressed.” </p><p> Her hand drops and immediately Steve misses the accompanying warmth. She sounds disappointed when she says, “I suppose it is.” </p><p>“Look at what you did.” He nods his chin at the celebratory sounds that continue around them.</p><p>She laughs, something bitter. “It looks like a warzone.”</p><p>“I can imagine,” he says, “but all that can be repaired or replaced. While the lives you saved -”</p><p>“And what of the lives you saved,” Steve frowns his confusion, “Do you doubt the reach of the Great War had that plane met it’s target.” </p><p>His jaw tightened. “That was a long time ago.” </p><p>“And yet you still live like it was yesterday,” she whispers and she is so close he feels her breath like a ghost across his cheek. “Tell me, Captain Trevor, was there nothing you wanted to do during peacetime. Things like: eat breakfast, read the paper, go to work.” </p><p>The suggestions are so odd Steve doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Imagine him trying to squint at the paper every morning or someone daring to hire a liability like him. “You know I can’t do half those things.”</p><p>“But there is so much more you could do,” she says and her passion, which has never been in short supply, catches him off guard, “Fall in love, get married, make babies.” </p><p>Her fingers gently trace the length of a scar that mars his cheek and then turn firm when he tries to avert his gaze. The truth is Steve doesn't let himself think about it much, the future, and he can't even remember the last time that he did.  Just that it would have been <em>before.</em> Before the explosion. Before the War. “You must have heard the way they whisper about me.” </p><p> “I’m hardly one for petty gossip.”</p><p>“Well, I'm not exactly considered the pick of the litter. And you -” </p><p>He trails off, but she’s quick to cut in with a challenge, “I’m -”</p><p>Steve takes a deep breath and then, finally, braves, “You already have someone.” </p><p>This time when she laughs, it’s nothing but relief. “Oh, Steve.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Diana takes Steve home, something he does not protest. Butterflies fill his stomach at the evening’s promise but when he asks if she wants to spend the night, it is mostly the storm he is thinking of and the resulting fear. Fear that either would be caught in another alone. </p><p>“I see no signs of damage,” she tells him, “except perhaps to your sign. It appears to have flown the coop.”</p><p>The phrase sounds strange coming from her and he laughs. “With the chickens?” </p><p>“Everyone is here,” she promises, “Even your horse is waiting for you.”</p><p>She leads him along the outer side of the fence where they are greeted with an impatient neigh. Steve laughs, running an affectionate hand over the horse’s mane. “Sorry about that, boy, but why don’t we get you inside?” </p><p>Diana helps him refill water trays and bales of hay overturned by nervous hoofs and when they walk toward the house their hands are entwined. </p><p>“My father carved it,” he tells her and, at her questioning hum, adds, “The sign.” </p><p>“Then I promise we will look for it tomorrow,” she says, “At first light.” </p><p>“Careful,” he teases, and he’s not quite sure where the words come from, “Promises are unbreakable.”</p><p>“Indeed.” </p><p>He intends to lead her to his sister’s old room but it’s Diana that tugs on his hand, silently guiding him through the hall and into his bedroom. It is there, in the privacy of candlelight, that they share their first kiss, a balm to his tired soul. Against his mouth, Diana smiles, but it’s salt he tastes.</p><p>He kisses the tear tracks along her cheek. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“I’ve just missed you.” He doesn't know how to make sense of that, but she presses a finger to his lips before he can even form a frown. “No more questions.” </p><p>They don’t talk for quite some time, at least nothing more than whispers of passion, and after, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, Steve jokes, “Perhaps we could read that book of yours now.” </p><p>She turns her head, nose brushing along his hairline. “I think you’ll agree we hardly need it.” </p><p>Steve's resulting grin is quite pleased before it softens into something fond.  “I love you.” </p><p>“Steve Trevor,” her hand strokes his cheek and with the taste of tears still on her lips, says, “I’m happy to say I love you, too.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That night, Steve dreams. </p><p>He dreams of burning planes and an island inhabited by an army of the fiercest of women. There is a magic lasso that allows only the truth and gauntlets that deflect bullets. He witnesses the miracle of a conquered wasteland and the power of a true god. Bittersweet wishes are made and then, he dies. </p><p>When he wakes, Diana’s limbs are entangled with his and he remembers all of it. More importantly, he knows it to be true. </p><p>“We’ve met before.” He doesn’t mean it to be a question. “In the war.”</p><p>Against his neck, Diana responds with nothing but a wide smile. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is for an event so I didn't have time to polish it as much as I would like, but I had a ton of fun writing it and it stirred up all sorts of ideas set in this time period so I might continue on with it in the future. Especially something from Diana’s POV because I definitely have THOUGHTS about what’s going on with Steve, even if I also happen to like the mystery. </p><p>Thanks so much for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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